He was the entire world
On a Friday evening near Hebron, a seven-month-old boy named Sam Fahd Abu Haikal was shot and killed when Israeli soldiers opened fire on his family's car as they drove to visit relatives — a bullet passing through his father's hand before striking the infant in the face. An initial military inquiry confirmed the family were uninvolved civilians, yet the killing joins a long and largely unaccounted-for ledger of Palestinian deaths in the occupied West Bank. In a conflict where soldiers face indictment in fewer than one percent of misconduct cases, a father's demand for justice echoes the grief of thousands before him — and the question his mother raised, of what army does this to a child, has no comfortable answer.
- A seven-month-old baby is dead, his mother is in critical condition with shrapnel near her heart, and his father's hand was shattered — all in the seconds it took soldiers to fire on a civilian family driving to see relatives.
- The military's own inquiry confirmed the family posed no threat, yet the institutional reflex was familiar: a statement of review, a claim of perceived danger, and the word 'mistake' applied to an infant's destroyed face.
- The father, a university lecturer, stood over his son's small body and rejected the language of error — 'Nothing is called a mistake' — while his mother asked the world a question it has struggled to answer about this conflict for decades.
- With over 1,000 Palestinians killed in the West Bank since October 2023, including at least 240 children, international calls for accountability have grown louder even as the structural reality — indictments in under 1% of cases — remains unchanged.
- The boy turned seven months old on the day he died; what his father called 'the entire world' was buried wrapped in a Palestinian flag, as the machinery of inquiry turned slowly and the family waited for a justice that rarely arrives.
On a Friday evening near Hebron, Fahd Abu Haikal — a lecturer at Bethlehem University — was driving his family to visit relatives. His wife sat in the back beside their son, Sam, seven months old that very day. His mother rode with them. They never arrived.
Israeli soldiers opened fire on the vehicle. A single bullet passed through the father's right hand before striking the infant in the face, entering one side and exiting the other, then continuing into the mother. When the shooting stopped, Sam was dead. His mother lay critically wounded, shrapnel lodged near her heart. His father's hand was destroyed.
The Israeli military said soldiers had perceived the car accelerating toward them and fired in response. An initial inquiry found the family were uninvolved civilians. The grandmother told journalists they had stopped when they saw soldiers in the distance — and then the shooting began. She thought at first they were warning shots. What she witnessed next, she said, was horrific.
The boy's body was carried to the mosque wrapped in a Palestinian flag. Before the funeral, the family told his mother — still in critical condition — that her son was gone. Standing over the small form, the father refused the word 'mistake.' 'At the end they tell you it was a mistake,' he said. 'Nothing is called a mistake.' His grandmother asked: 'What kind of army in the world does this?'
The killing is part of a broader and intensifying pattern. Since the October 2023 Hamas-led attack on Israel and the subsequent war in Gaza, military operations in the West Bank have escalated sharply. The United Nations reports more than 1,000 Palestinians killed there since the war began — at least 240 of them children. Yet accountability remains structurally elusive: according to the Israeli human rights group Yesh Din, soldiers were indicted in fewer than one percent of nearly 2,500 misconduct complaints filed between 2016 and 2024. International calls for a transparent investigation followed Sam's death, as they have followed so many others — and, as with so many others, it remains unclear where they will lead.
On a Friday evening in the Tel Rumeida area south of Hebron, a family set out in their car to visit relatives. Sam Fahd Abu Haikal, seven months old, was in the back seat with his mother. His father, Fahd Abu Haikal, a lecturer at Bethlehem University, was driving. His grandmother was also in the vehicle. They never reached their destination.
Israeli troops opened fire on the car. A bullet pierced the windshield, passed through the father's right hand, and then struck his son in the face—entering from the right side and exiting from the left. The same round continued into the mother, who was seated beside the baby. Another bullet struck the hood. When the shooting stopped, the seven-month-old was dead. His mother lay wounded, shrapnel lodged dangerously close to her heart. His father's hand was shattered.
The Israeli military's account was straightforward: soldiers had perceived the vehicle accelerating toward them and responded with single shots. An initial inquiry concluded the family were uninvolved civilians. The situation, the military said, was under review. Three Palestinians had been wounded in the exchange.
But the father's account, and that of his mother who witnessed it, painted a different picture of those moments. The grandmother said they had been driving near a checkpoint when they spotted Israeli military vehicles and soldiers in the distance. They stopped. Then the firing began. She thought at first it was warning shots. The scene that followed, she would later tell journalists, was horrific—a seven-month-old baby with a destroyed face.
The boy's body was wrapped in a Palestinian flag. His father carried him to the mosque for funeral prayers. Before the service, the family told the mother—still in critical condition—that her son was dead. The father, standing over his child's small form, demanded something the system rarely provides: justice. "At the end they tell you it was a mistake," he said. "Nothing is called a mistake." His grandmother asked a question that hung in the air: "What kind of army in the world does this?"
The killing occurred against a backdrop of escalating military operations in the West Bank. Since the October 7, 2023 attack by Hamas-led militants on southern Israel and the subsequent war in Gaza, the Israeli military has intensified its presence and operations in the occupied territories. The United Nations reported last month that more than one thousand Palestinians have been killed in the West Bank and east Jerusalem since the war began—at least two hundred and forty of them children.
Accountability for such incidents has proven elusive. According to Yesh Din, an Israeli human rights organization, soldiers accused of harming Palestinians were indicted in fewer than one percent of cases based on twenty-four hundred and twenty-seven complaints alleging wrongdoing between 2016 and 2024. The British Consulate in Jerusalem called for an immediate and transparent investigation and accountability, but such calls have become routine in a conflict where investigations often lead nowhere.
The baby turned seven months old on the day he died. His father's words—"He was the entire world"—would be all that remained of him beyond the photographs and the wrapped bundle carried to prayer.
Notable Quotes
At the end they tell you it was a mistake. Nothing is called a mistake.— Fahd Abu Haikal, the father
What kind of army in the world does this?— Feryal Abu Heikal, the baby's grandmother
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the military's account matter if an inquiry already found the family were uninvolved civilians?
Because the inquiry is preliminary, and preliminary findings in these cases rarely lead anywhere. The pattern is what matters—fewer than one percent of complaints result in indictment. The family knows this. That's why the father said "nothing is called a mistake."
The grandmother said they stopped when they saw the soldiers. Does that suggest they were trying to comply?
It suggests they were trying to survive. They saw armed forces, they stopped. Then they were shot anyway. The grandmother's question—"what kind of army does this?"—isn't rhetorical. She's asking how a trained military fires on a stopped car with a baby inside.
The mother is in critical condition. What happens to her now?
She recovers or she doesn't. Either way, she lives with the knowledge that a bullet passed through her son's face before entering her body. The father's hand is shattered. The grandmother witnessed it all. The family's life has been permanently altered by minutes that the military says are under review.
Is there any scenario where firing on that car was justified?
The military believed the vehicle was accelerating toward them. Whether that perception was accurate, whether it posed genuine threat, whether warning shots were attempted—those are the questions an investigation should answer. But the pattern suggests investigations in these cases don't change outcomes.
What does "under review" actually mean in this context?
It means the incident is being documented. It means there will likely be a report. It means, based on the numbers, that nothing will probably happen to the soldiers involved. The family will grieve. The military will move forward.